


Prizes over Discovery (VI)

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Series: Prizes over Discovery [6]
Category: Master and Commander (movie), Master and Commander - O'Brian
Genre: Age of Sail, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-26
Updated: 2004-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to Thevetia, Tina, and X.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Prizes over Discovery (VI)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Thevetia, Tina, and X.

Sophie returned the necklace, of course. Stephen would need it, she insisted, and besides, Captain Aubrey had spoken with Captain Greenway, and she was quite untroubled now. Stephen lifted the simple chain from her letter unfolded before him, watched the emerald sway, and considered which version of events to believe. The version circulating in London -- carried by seamen who insisted they had heard it from Barret Bonden himself, and travelling among the more gossipy of the naval officers -- was that Captain Aubrey had burst into Greenway's rooms cursing and damning him to a fiery hell, had kicked the wretch outside and had chased him round a hedge with a bosun's rope until the blackguard had begged for mercy. Although this more colourful version entertained Stephen's imagination, the truth was most likely somewhat more sedate. The mad spectacle of Jack chasing another officer (even one he suspected of bothering his wife) with a bosun's rope did not quite fit; it seemed a breach of naval discipline and etiquette, and Jack was rather scrupulous about such things. In Ireland, Stephen thought as he returned the necklace to the letter, it would be much simpler: Greenway would have been called out and shot by now.

Ireland was much in Stephen's mind at present: he had returned from his month there only two days ago. Returned to be met by Sir Joseph Blaine, who had important news from the Continent and had casually mentioned the rumour about Jack and Greenway and the bosun's rope. Sir Joseph was no gossip; he imparted the information as a friend and as a gentle warning: at the moment the current of feeling was with Jack, but public opinion was fickle, and a captain as successful as Aubrey in capturing prizes made jealous enemies.

Stephen had also returned to find his precious galago fat, lethargic and content in the care of the boot-boy, whose dark and awkward room under the stairs pleased it. And he had returned to a small collection of waiting letters: a very satisfying one from Monsieur Thierry, who sent some curious bones; one from his bankers, of no consequence; and one, surprisingly, from Diana, who claimed she had saved some interesting skins from a hunting trip with Mr de Kuyper (her current lover) and if Maturin would want them they were his -- the combination of generosity and careless cruelty was the very essence of Diana and it made Stephen ache to see her, to touch her again. In the evening he had set her letter aside after the fifth reading and retired to a very small dose of laudanum and to bed, and now in the grey morning he completed his mail: the letter from Sophie returning the necklace; and a letter from Jack, which Stephen opened last.

Jack was an unpredictable correspondent. He either wrote long candid rambling letters full of minutiae and marks of exclamation and omission, or he wrote short efficient notes in a firm sloping hand with no punctuation more adventurous than a full stop. The letter Stephen opened was of the latter kind: politely informing him that Jack would be travelling to London on the seventeenth and would beg to impose upon Stephen's hospitality. In a post-scriptum he added that Sophie sent her love. Stephen checked the date (Jack was conscientious about dating his letters, having learnt at sea the great frustration of undated correspondence) and saw that Jack's letter had been sent over a week after Sophie had returned the necklace. Stephen had not replied to her, and this, Stephen decided, explained why Jack had sent a letter at all -- Jack never wrote to tell Stephen he was coming; indeed, Stephen looked forward to Jack's unannounced visits with a subdued but ever-present keen anticipation that was only partially erotic in nature.

While Stephen was musing on what to write to Sophie he was interrupted by his landlady, who announced that he had a visitor waiting below. Her manner and choice of words told him this much: that it was a man, a stranger she did not like. Stephen put on a good coat and his blue spectacles and went to meet his visitor in the downstairs snug. The man was short and round, with too jovial a manner as he introduced himself -- Mr Chamms -- and too knowing a smile. Stephen sat down with him, carefully taking the chair in shadow and leaving Mr Chamms the chair in sunlight.

"How may I be of service?" Stephen asked.

Mr Chamms laughed and broke out in a sweat. "Oh, sir," he cried. "No, it is rather that I may be of service to you."

Stephen observed him silently for a moment before inquiring, "In what regard?"

"Well, sir," said Mr Chamms, drawing his chair nearer and resting his hands on his knees. "It is a matter concerning a friend of yours, a certain sea captain we hear so much about. The fact is, he owes a great deal of money to an individual, another sea captain. Now, sir, that is not my business. No, that is a strictly financial matter between them. But this individual, this other sea captain, has made it be known that he possesses information which might cause distress to certain persons -- including your friend and your friend's missus, that is to say, wife." He paused for dramatic effect and gave Stephen what was meant to be a piercing look, but Stephen, secure in the shadows and his blue spectacles, sat motionless and waited.

Disappointed by Stephen's lack of reaction, Mr Chamms shifted and continued, "I am sure none of us want distress to come to a genteel lady, so I said to myself, I said, 'Chamms, here is a matter where you can be of assistance.' You see, sir, I have some knowledge myself, that is to say, some knowledge of this other sea captain. And I said to myself, 'why, if ever what I know gets into the hands of the right people, this fellow can't rightly say a word.' Being, if you follow me, exposed to view himself. And knowing you was such a great friend to Captain Au-- that is to say, to your friend the sea captain, I came here directly to offer my service."

"I see," said Stephen placidly. "This information that would cause so much distress -- what is its nature?"

Mr Chamms gave Stephen a hard, canny look. "Well, sir, I can't rightly say. That is, without there being some arrangement between us, some understanding, if you know what I mean."

"I believe I do." Stephen rose and straightened his coat. "Good day to you now, Mr Chamms."

Mr Chamms sat staring at Stephen. When he stood he said darkly, "I see how it is, sir. And a crying shame it will be, yes, indeed." He shook his head as he left, murmuring, "The poor missus..."

Stephen stood by the window and noted the direction of Mr Chamms' departure. Then he returned to his rooms, went to his writing desk, opened a drawer and took out his pistol. He checked the flint and cleaned the barrel, and while he was counting his supply of shot he paused, sat back and rubbed his forehead. It was all senseless, futile: there was nothing to do. But the mechanical process of checking his pistol had assuaged his temper. He replaced the pistol and took up a sheet of paper and pen and ink.

> My dear Sophie,
> 
> The return of the necklace was quite unnecessary but very kind. I shall put it aside and perhaps one day it will find a suitable place of adornment. I apologise for not acknowledging its receipt sooner, but I have been in Ireland these few weeks. I had hoped to visit Frances -- it is difficult to imagine that wild little girl a married woman -- but my travels did not take me so far as Ulster.
> 
> I have received fair warning that I may expect your husband on the seventeenth. How you have contrived this respite for yourself I will not ask, but I pray you enjoy it, Mrs Aubrey.
> 
> Send word of my honey buzzards with your husband: I cherish them greatly.
> 
> Very affectionately yours, Stephen Maturin

As he waited for the ink to dry, Mr Chamms' words floated back to him: _a sea captain we hear so much about_. The words were an echo; he had heard them before. From a woman in Bombay.

\-----

In the chilly cloudy morning Ashgrove Cottage was silent and grey. Jack Aubrey lay in bed on his stomach, watching his wife wrap herself in her dressing gown. They had just made love, and usually Jack dozed afterward, but today release had not brought with it relaxation. He was concerned for Sophie: her mood perplexed him. When he had turned to her in bed the previous night, there had been tears in her eyes. He had tried to kiss them away, had then held her in his arms until she slept: never knowing the cause and never knowing if he was a comfort or not. He had woken with a strong desire for shared passion -- but the result, and Sophie's customary reserve, left him unsettled.

Sophie tip-toed from the room and closed the door behind her. Jack rolled onto his back and stretched across the bed. He could not complain; Sophie had been quite accomodating of late -- she longed for children, and Mrs Williams' temporary stay with Sophie's sister Cecilia had left them quite alone together. Sophie was particularly kind -- but, perhaps, with an awareness of being kind. As with a gift bestowed, and Sophie neither sought nor asked for a reciprocal gift; and Jack felt grateful, selfish and vaguely guilty, for it made him keenly aware of a certain one-sidedness to this aspect of their relations. Jack had known very few virtuous women before he met Sophie, and it was both reassuring and troubling to realise that a woman could retain her virtue -- her moral virtue -- even after marriage. And yet Jack had not expected Sophie to change -- and surely it was not fitting for a man to seek to turn his wife into a common slut.

He had always supposed that when true love was involved (and Jack dearly loved his wife), the act itself would be one of mutual and complete understanding conveyed through physical pleasure and release: a communion of souls as well as of bodies. And indeed it was so with Stephen... Jack knew he should not think intimately about Stephen while in his marriage bed; he rose and washed and shaved and dressed.

Tomorrow he would see Stephen, and this thought did much to dispel his unsettled mood. For a brief moment Jack wished it were possible to confide his marriage problems to Stephen: Jack valued Stephen's counsel, and Stephen possessed a particularly insightful opinion of Sophie. But, however, it was impossible and under the circumstances somewhat perverse. Besides, Jack reflected, despite Stephen's more attractive qualities he remained unmarried and could not be considered an authority on wives.

Jack's departure for London was not ill-timed: that afternoon Mrs Williams returned to Ashgrove. Jack's relations with his mother-in-law had never been particularly loving, but since his recent return from the Indian Ocean he had detected a subtle change in Mrs Williams' demeanour toward him which he could not name or understand. At times her looks and manner were accusatory; at other times, sympathetic or even sorrowful. It was as if she were deciding whether to blame him or pity him for an unknown circumstance. Furthermore, there was a mysterious and silent communication between her and Sophie. If Jack had been on a man-of-war and if Sophie and Mrs Williams had been foremast jacks, he would have said that they were keeping something from him -- some lower-deck secret which the captain had every right to know but which the men felt the captain should be protected from knowing. This made Jack uneasy, and although he hated to think that he might be shy when it came to his domestic relations, he was eager to get away.

He spent most of the day walking in the garden, sketching plans and making notes for the architect. When he saw the carriage bringing Mrs Williams, he slowly walked across the grass, the slender vines, and the struggling roots and greeted his mother-in-law.

Jack sat through dinner in benign silence, listening to Mrs Williams compare everything about his person, his home and his career to Cecilia's husband: compare and find Jack wanting in every respect. The one point she could not mention, of course, was that Cecilia's husband had flatly refused to have Mrs Williams live with them after she had lost her estate -- while Jack had readily agreed to it; she was Sophie's mother: of course she must live with them.

There had been times in the past when it had been too much to bear: when he had responded to Mrs Williams, spoken sharply, and earned the cold fury of his wife and her mother. He had discovered that a woman's anger could make a home unliveable. Now Jack sat quietly, did not let the endless stream of disparaging observations ruin his dinner, and watched Sophie. She did not agree with her mother, that was apparent, but she did not defend him. She looked weary and helpless; Jack ached to be alone with her and hold her in his arms.

They were not alone until they retired to bed. Jack kissed Sophie chastely on the cheek and settled to sleep. Unexpectedly she curled against his side, warm and very soft. Jack's domestic contentedness was suffused with a strong erotic desire, but while he weighed the satiation of his own needs against the probable disturbance of Sophie's, she fell asleep with her cheek pressed to his shoulder, and a deep tranquility led Jack into slumber.

In the morning he woke from a dark, terrifying and strangely sexual dream about her cousin Diana, and out of obscure guilt he hesitated to look at Sophie. But as soon as he saw her pink sleepy face and untidy hair spilling from her night-cap, he was filled with tenderness; the dream faded. Sophie yawned sweetly and sat up. Jack rubbed her hip and said, "Have you any word for Stephen, dearest?"

She looked back wildly. "Stephen! Oh Jack, can it be the seventeenth already? But I meant to send him at least two pairs of stockings..." she said mournfully. Out of bed, she hurried with her hair and dressing gown and rushed away murmuring about getting a basket ready in a manner which might cause jealousy in some husbands, Jack observed. She was more composed by the time he dressed and joined her in the kitchen for his breakfast. She sent him off from the cottage with a sweet kiss and a full basket -- for Stephen, a new woollen comforter and one pair of stockings, a jar of green apple jelly, and some smoked eels; for Jack, some bread and cheese for the journey.

As he walked to the cross to meet the chaise, he glanced back and saw her standing at the doorway. Filled with gentle love, he smiled and lifted his hand and waved to her, but Mrs Williams had come to the open door and was drawing Sophie away inside.

\-----

Stephen woke up restless after an ill sleep. He had not taken laudanum since the night of his return, and today it was the seventeenth, and he could not settle his spirit. It was worse knowing when Jack would arrive than having no word of it, he reflected. Stephen spent the morning distracted and sour and finally left his lodgings in the afternoon to attend a lecture on celebrated new physics from the Continent. He had not intended to go -- the lecturer was a Prussian quack and a Bonapartist -- but he assured himself that it was his obligation as a physician. The deeply hidden superstition that his absence from home would hasten Jack's arrival -- Jack had a habit of arriving while Stephen was out -- never touched his consciousness.

Which was just as well because when Stephen returned Jack had not arrived. The moment of keen disappointment as Stephen stood between the empty parlour and the empty bedroom brought with it an odd peace: a heavy patience to replace anticipatory agitation. He retired to his desk and studies and was cutting into the deformed left leg of a deceased infant of Scandinavian origin when he heard the knock and Padeen answering the door and Jack's hearty greeting. Stephen carefully folded his spectacles and tucked them in a pocket, replaced the infant leg in its jar of spirits, wiped his hands on a cloth, lowered and buttoned his shirtsleeves, and rose from the desk. He sent Padeen away with the captain's cloak and hat and locked the door behind him.

"Lord, Stephen," said Jack, smiling up at him from the fireside chair, "how happy I am to see you."

Stephen, whose impulsive intention since he'd heard the knock at the door had been to seize Jack and lead him to the bedroom and to bed, was checked by Jack's smile: singularly sweet and, indeed, most happy. Stephen returned the smile and sat on the sofa next to a basket Jack had brought.

"From Sophie," said Jack, nodding at it. "Forgive me, my dear, but I ate one of your eels on the way -- I was that clemmed and they smelled uncommon good."

Stephen had found the eels and breathed deeply of their scent. "That fine woman," he murmured admiringly. "And stockings, too, I see. Were it not for your wife, joy, I believe my legs should be quite bare."

He had not said it teasingly -- his mind was, in fact, quite taken up with thoughts of Sophie as he held the stockings in one hand and the jar of jelly in the other -- but Jack gave him a particular and significant look. The sweet smile was gone, replaced by one rakish and predatory. Jack had time to remark, "Why, as to that..." and leave the rest unsaid, and Stephen had time to set the contents of the basket aside, before they were standing, kissing and grasping and holding each other.

Jack sighed against Stephen's cheek and whispered, "Stephen," as Stephen undressed him. Kissing and awkward they fumbled with Stephen's clothes and now, quite naked, Stephen meant to lead him to the bed at last. But Jack turned and grasped the mantel, and there, by the light of the dying fire and with the cold floor underfoot they joined. Jack's body coiled with fearsome strength, tensing and writhing, and sweat ran down his back and arms and legs, crossing the shaded lines of his scars. All of Stephen's earlier restlessness returned, with force, and matched Jack's -- they were one, utterly, in a violent thrilling passion that climbed and climbed until there was no higher understanding or higher joy. Their harsh exhausted breaths filled the dark room. The fire had gone out at some lost unnoticed moment.

Later, Stephen returned from the bedroom wrapped in a dressing gown and found Jack sitting on the floor in his shirt, poking at the fireplace and making a new fire. Stephen sat beside him, and they ate hard bread and a rind of cheese Stephen kept in his writing desk and the rest of Sophie's smoked eels and drank a quantity of Stephen's port. Jack slid his arms round Stephen and Stephen leaned into his embrace, drowsy and watching the fire and tantalised by each soft moist kiss Jack left along his ear and jaw and neck. Jack's tenderness contrarily reminded Stephen of the tale of Jack chasing Captain Greenway round a hedge and swinging a bosun's rope.

"What is that smile for?" Jack said against his ear.

"I was imagining how terrible you must appear when in a rage, my dear," Stephen said. "A true rage. Tell me now, did you really kick Captain Greenway into the lawn from his own doorway?"

"Greenway?!" cried Jack. He chuckled and lay back on the floor and clasped his hands behind his head. "What stuff. Is that what they're saying here?"

Stephen reclined across Jack's legs and lazily caressed Jack's left thigh. "Among other things, yes." After a pause he added casually, "It is said that you owe him a hundred pounds."

Jack propped himself up on his elbows. "I do not owe that scrub Greenway a hundred pounds. It is true we had a wager, but we both lost." Stephen watched him, silent: the fire gave Jack's skin and hair a most pleasing yellow-gold glow, and he looked particularly fetching when he was absolutely convinced of his moral rightness. "We were mids together on the old _Callisto_, and there was a barmaid in Plymouth we both liked," Jack continued. "Greenway bet me a hundred pounds that her biggest smile would be for him; I said it would not, it would be for me. And do you know, when we saw her, I thought I was dished, for she did give him a bigger smile. But, in the end, we were both mistaken. I saw her go into the back garden and meet a Marine at the gate, and her _biggest_ smile was for him. Greenway had not bet me on a bigger smile -- no, 'her biggest smile,' he'd said. As I pointed out to him when I refused to pay. I even had a witness -- the boot-boy had seen it, too."

Stephen attempted to imagine this very same look of smug triumph on a much younger Aubrey face, but the current one was so delightful he abandoned the attempt and slid his hand higher along Jack's thigh. "How did either of you intend to pay the debt? Unless I'm mistaken, midshipmen are not commonly known for possessing hundreds of pounds."

"Oh, well. We had an agreement that the loser would pay the debt as soon as he became a post captain. Back in those days we thought captains quite grand -- were sure they were rich beyond belief." Jack shook his head at his younger self. "I had heard that Greenway began talking about that old bet again when I made post, but it was all so ridiculous. Until he began annoying Sophie."

"But you did have words with him?" Stephen asked.

"Well, yes, I did," said Jack, looking into the fire. "I told him what I thought of naval officers -- old shipmates, in fact -- who nosed round other officers' wives: fires of Hell too good for 'em, flogging round the fleet would be a breeze compared to what I should like to do, that sort of thing. And he said something uncommon low about the kettle calling the pot black, by which I guessed he meant Molly Harte, and I was struck dumb that he could dare to compare Sophie to Molly. My dear sweet Sophie to that... Well. By then he was back on that silly old wager, saying I could send my boot-boy to the Marines, and anyone could find a boot-boy to say anything. So I said, 'Are you calling me a liar, sir?' and, not to put too fine a point on it, I meant to call him out. Which he must have seen, for he shrank away and changed his tune soon enough. Said it was all a misunderstanding, and he hoped Mrs Aubrey had not been troubled by his good-intentioned visits."

"You didn't strike him?"

"I did not." Jack sat up and stirred the fire. "Oh, my hand of its own volition may have curled into a fist, and in the course of our conversation it may have waved in front of his face, but no: I did not strike him."

"I see," said Stephen. He lifted a glass and drained the last drops of port, considering. He was about to ask Jack if Greenway could be a dangerous man, when Jack turned and seized him by the hips and pulled him into a deep merry kiss. Thoughts of Greenway disappeared; they retired to bed and sleep. And in the black hours of night, Jack made love to him, slow and careful and affectionate and with an enduring fortitude that Stephen in his weary contented state afterwards thought explained much about Jack's success with lusty women.

He had pulled Jack's hair ribbon away earlier and was now dangling it over Jack's face. With his eyes closed against the weak early light, Jack was resting with his head pillowed on Stephen's chest and would blow or bite at the ribbon when it touched his lips. Jack looked insufferably pleased with himself but -- Stephen reflected while savouring his dull, satisfied ache -- he had every right to be.

"Your letter didn't say -- what brought you to town?" Stephen asked, drawing the ribbon over the tip of Jack's nose, which twitched from side to side.

"To see the architect," Jack said and added with a smile, opening his eyes, "And you, old plum."

The ribbon brushed against Jack's brow. Stephen said, "Myself you have seen. Pray tell me about the architect."

Jack rubbed the back of his head against Stephen. "I took the money from the _Humanité_ with a mind to expand the garden. Something formal with a little gate, I thought. Sophie would look a picture standing by a little gate, don't you think? I brought a gardener in from Portsmouth, an excellent fellow. It was he who suggested I see Mr Miller -- that's the architect -- about adding a new wing. Of course I've had it in mind, but it makes so much sense, do you see? The wing can go up at the same time as the gardens."

Stephen dipped the ribbon and tickled Jack's lips with it. "Sure, I know little of these things, but would it not be very costly? Was your share from the _Humanité_ so great?"

Jack rolled over and kissed Stephen's cheek. "Your share was rather handsome, too, my dear. But as to that, yes, I suppose it will use up a quantity of the prize money, but it will be worth it." He traced a square on Stephen's chest. "I've got it planned: here is the cottage, and the wing will be here--" He traced a rectangle across Stephen's heart. "Your room will be here, upstairs, and this room will be your study -- for all your jars and specimens and things. Downstairs we'll put Mrs Williams here, and next to her room will be the nursery."

Stephen stared at him, but Jack's hair fell forward in a great yellow wave, hiding his face as he bent to kiss Stephen's chest and the plan of the new wing. _Your room, study, nursery_... Stephen felt on the edge of a great precipice: to fall was so inviting -- indeed he was beckoned, welcomed -- and to survive he would have step back.

"Jack," he said finally, "I have a room. I have these rooms. And I cannot abandon my patients for the hypochondriacal sea-faring folk of Hampshire."

"Of course not," Jack said, kissing him again. "The room is for when you visit. The study was Sophie's idea -- she thought you might not like to share your bedroom with stuffed squids and dead reptiles and such; she's never seen your lodgings here, ha ha!"

Jack looked at him, smiling merrily; the smile faded somewhat and softened, and Jack touched Stephen's cheek with his fingertips. "It is only a place for you to stay. You will abandon nobody, I believe," said Jack quietly. His dry rough warm thumb brushed over Stephen's lips.

Stephen kissed the centre of his palm. "Just so." They kissed softly, and Jack slid comfortably into his embrace. Stephen stroked Jack's hair and back, and felt that though he had stepped back from the precipice, he was walking along it still; and yet there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that it was there. After a while he said, "This mention of the nursery -- am I to take it there is a need, an urgent need, of one?"

Jack tensed a little, and Stephen feared he had ventured too far -- so much between them was delicate still -- but when Jack looked at him, his bleakness was remote, sad, bewildered.

"No," said Jack. "In fact, I should have said the music room, for that's what it will be until we need a nursery." Jack hesitated and gave Stephen a chastened look. "Do you know, I thought that of all the things to give a wife, children would be the easiest. I thought we should have several of the little creatures by now. I even wondered, though I'm not a superstitious man, if perhaps my relations with you had some cause in preventing it, forgive me, Stephen. But I can't credit it. My old friend Heneage has relations with any number of women and his wife has two children, and then there's the half dozen or so bastards... Oh, Lord, Stephen, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean..."

Stephen caressed Jack's hair. "Hush, now. I know your meaning."

Jack relaxed and Stephen held him. Jack sighed and said, "A child is what Sophie wants most of all, and I can't give it to her."

Stephen kissed Jack's brow, and was unpleasantly aware of his position as Sophie's confidant. Jack had given her a child; Sophie had lost the unborn babe -- and both of these facts were to be kept from Jack on Sophie's wishes. "Never let it bother you, my dear," he said. "You will have need of the nursery soon enough, I am certain of it. Sure, there is a somewhat brutish vitality in English stock such as yours, ensuring a long lineage and nurseries full of ugly fat babies."

Jack smiled softly. "I am glad to hear it. But you are wrong about one thing: no baby of Sophie's could possibly be ugly. Why, can you imagine such a thing?"

Stephen, who had from time to time contemplated upon the ability of loathsome parents to produce beautiful children and the inverse ability of beautiful parents to produce vile-looking babies, could imagine just such a thing, but said nothing, for Jack was happy, smiling, confident. And handsome in his confidence. Dawn flooded the room, turning the night into day.

"Lord, it is light already," said Jack, sitting up and stretching his great strong arms and broad scarred back. With the morning light behind him he looked massive, dark and heathenish with his hair hanging in tousled waves. "What say you to breakfast? I mean to stop at the Admiralty this morning before seeing Mr Miller."

"Breakfast with all my heart," said Stephen, rising. They dressed, and Stephen tied Jack's hair back for him, and Jack made the parlour neat and unremarkable while Stephen saw his landlady about breakfast. After their leisurely pleasant meal, with a hasty kiss Jack collected his coat and bade Stephen farewell. Stephen watched him from the window -- and noticed the ill-looking young boy skulking across the street who followed him.

\-----

Jack was in good spirits throughout the day. He was sure Stephen was right: he and Sophie would have need of a nursery soon. Jack had absolute faith in Stephen's opinion when it came to anything physical or medical; and, indeed, he was so reassured that by the end of the day there lurked in his mind the belief that when he returned to Ashgrove Sophie would rush to him with the good news. And in truth, the satiation of his own hungers and his apparent satisfaction of Stephen's desires had done much to restore his optimism: more, perhaps, than he liked to acknowledge. He did not believe himself a rake, a very mere satyr, but to bring the labours of physical activity to a universal and satisfactory -- a most satisfactory -- conclusion made him enormously happy. It was life, this connexion, as sure as the pounding of the seas and the howling of the winds.

His hours at the Admiralty did not diminish his sanguinity, even when he was informed that he would not be seen today -- in a tone of voice calculated to remind him how far down he was on the post captains' list. Gravity briefly visited him as he read the newspapers and _Chronicle_: old shipmates he would now never see again; incompetent boobies promoted above him; and the renewed political attentions of General Aubrey, his father, in the radical interest. However, his afternoon visit with Mr Miller, the architect, set him firmly on the path of happy distraction. He returned to Stephen's lodgings with two large rolled up plans tucked under his arm, humming softly to himself.

"Ah, there you are, Stephen," cried Jack as he entered the parlour. In response to this hail Stephen would get a particular pleased look Jack cherished much; Jack was delighted to see it now, and he unrolled the plans on Stephen's table as Stephen rose from his writing desk, wiping his hands on a cloth and adjusting his spectacles.

"There," said Jack proudly, turning the upper paper so Stephen could see. "What do you think of that? Mr Miller had already begun draughting these -- he said he did not want to lose a minute. A fine learned chap. This one is for the garden."

Stephen looked over the plan for some moments in silence. "This is a fountain, I collect?"

"Abaft the topiary promenade? Yes. This one shows Mr Miller's original design for the topiary at the head of the walk: a nymph on the one side and queer little lateen-rigged brig on the other. I didn't think Sophie would much care for the nymph -- it ain't quite genteel, as you can see -- so we agreed upon an anchor instead. And on the other side -- you can see my corrections here, and here -- will be the _Surprise_. Now there's glory for you."

"The nymph survives in the fountain, I see," said Stephen.

"Oh, in the fountain she will be in water. She is undressed to preserve her clothes from ruin," said Jack reasonably. "Sophie can't object to a nymph in water, I believe."

Stephen made no comment and lifted the plan of the new wing from underneath and spread it before them.

"There's your room," Jack said, tapping at the paper.

"So many windows..." murmured Stephen. He examined the drawings carefully. "What is this strange dome here?"

"That," said Jack, "is your cupola. For watching birds. When I mentioned you was a rare one for birds, Mr Miller immediately suggested this cupola, or viewing deck. That is the sort of fellow he is."

"Indeed," Stephen said in a low tone. "Forgive me, dear: it is a fine plan, no doubt -- but is it not rather grand?"

Jack looked at the side elevation of the new wing and considered. "You think it too much the raree-show? Well, you may be right. I suggested that we didn't need the scallop-shaped lintels above every window but Mr Miller seemed quite attached to them... But it don't signify: there is still time. Come, let's sit together and work on it a bit -- knock it down from a first-rate to a sixth-rate."

Stephen took off his spectacles. "Not I, I fear. I must attend to some matters this evening. I am sorry for it," he said, absently rubbing Jack's arm. "However, I have ordered a fine supper for you from downstairs."

"Will you be gone so long?" asked Jack, disappointed.

Stephen gazed at him, smiled softly, and kissed his brow. "I will return as shortly as I can, my love."

This satisfied Jack, who reflected that he was likely to get more work completed on the plans by himself. Stephen said no more about his matters, and although Jack knew not to be inquisitive, he was nevertheless vaguely uneasy: the last time Stephen had attended to confidential matters they had ended up in Spain and in danger. But Stephen's manner was not so very grave, and he departed with such an affectionate kiss that Jack's concern faded, and he concentrated on his plans.

Looking at them anew, he saw that Stephen was right: they were much too grand. Jack recalled his last visit to Woolcombe, the house of his childhood, and the improvements General Aubrey had made -- all very grand, and all of them, in Jack's opinion, thoroughly unnecessary and ruinous to the beauty of the house. Ashgrove Cottage was neither beautiful nor fine, but it was not without its charm: which would be consumed by the imposing wing and fussy garden. However, Jack believed Mr Miller was on the right tack; he just needed to take in some of his sheets. He sketched far into the evening -- they did not need the topiary promenade; a gravel walk from the vineyard would do nicely -- and Stephen had not returned. Jack retired to bed alone and slept lightly, waking when he felt Stephen press against him and kiss the back of his neck. Woken, roused, sensing Stephen's appetite, Jack stretched beneath him and grasped his hand. When they joined, Stephen's strength thrilled him and stirred an answering wildness -- it was like being brought into a great tempest; and then he was tamed by Stephen's caresses and kisses and soft warm gusts of breath upon his skin. Such aching gentleness: almost too much to bear, too exquisite to last and more precious because it must end. And so it did: a most pleasurable, perfect ending which left Jack thoroughly content and happily weary.

He lay with Stephen resting in his arms, not quite dozing and aware that Stephen was not at all asleep. "Jack," said Stephen after a while, "is it possible that Captain Greenway is acquainted with our friend Mrs Keneally?"

The sound of her name sent a chill down Jack's spine. "I suppose so, yes. Why the devil do you mention them?"

"Because I was visited by an associate of Captain Greenway's not long before your arrival, and he said something which put Mrs Keneally to mind," said Stephen. He slipped from Jack's embrace and sat up. "He also hinted that Greenway had damaging information he would use against you -- unless I intervened, presumably by offering money."

"Good lord, Stephen," Jack cried. "Do you suppose he meant... that is to say -- our friendship?"

Stephen did not reply immediately; he lightly stroked Jack's cheek with the back of his hand. "I dare say 'friendship' would not be the word he would have used," Stephen murmured. "But I don't know what he meant. It may be this, or it may be some other transgression, real or imagined."

Jack considered all he knew of Greenway and Mrs Keneally and felt a looming anxiety and sense of dread. He could not account for their motivations -- if indeed it were a conspiratorial design -- but the fact that Stephen had been approached, the whiff of blackmail, the hint of scandal, signalled danger as surely as a lee-shore or rough shoals.

"I tell you what it is," he said. "I can't credit their perseverance. I'm not a rich man, despite some luck with prizes, and I don't top it the knob. I'm not a flash cove, always showing away to make other fellows jealous... Am I?" Jack could not quite see Stephen in the darkness, but reached for him and held his hand.

"No, I would never say you were a flash cove," said Stephen, and he squeezed Jack's hand. "I believe in both of their cases, they felt aggrieved in the past. Now, however, I wonder if you may not be a peripheral target. Mrs Keneally in particular has greater ambitions, but if she can hurt you in her machinations, so much the better. What Greenway's ultimate goal may be, you would know better than I."

"Perhaps," Jack said. "I hadn't seen him in years and years. But do you know, I should hardly have recognised him if I had passed him on the street. We are of an age, but he looks a damned sight older than I, I fancy. And of course he hasn't been as fortunate in his commands. He was made post on the _Archimede_, which was lost off Norway in '04. Only one boat of survivors, and there was some question of cowardice among the officers, Greenway included. I don't credit it, myself -- he was no coward when we served together on the old _Callisto_ \-- but talk like that has a way of haunting a man, so that he may doubt he did the best by his crew. And after the court-martial, though he was acquitted, his next command was captain on a prison transport, poor fellow." Jack fell silent, memories of the _Callisto_ floating with more recent memories -- Greenway's shabby lodgings, more meagre than Jack would have believed necessary even on a captain's half-pay; Greenway himself: thin, balding, sallow. Jack thought of himself: home after a successful cruise, with every expectation of being sent on another; loved by a dear and beautiful wife and by his most intimate friend; in fine health but for a few scars and wounds. He was not a flash cove, but perhaps he had come it a bit high with Greenway. Jack stirred himself from these gloomy thoughts and said, "But come, Stephen, all this talk of Mrs Keneally -- surely she is still in India?"

Stephen stroked Jack's forearm and said quietly, "No, my dear, she is not. She is back in London, as Mrs Beauman. She married Captain Beauman of the Honourable East India Company some months ago."

\-----

Jack had taken the news calmly. After a long pause, he had said he felt sorry for the man she'd married. Eventually Jack had relaxed and begun to snore. Comforted by this -- no exclamations, no alarm -- Stephen had closed his eyes and welcomed sleep; but it had not come until very late, and morning and Jack moving about getting dressed had sent it away completely. After a plain, pleasant breakfast Jack picked up his coat.

"Are you leaving, then?" said Stephen, going to the window.

"Just to the Admiralty and to take these back to Mr Miller," said Jack, gathering his simplified plans for Ashgrove.

Stephen put on his coat. "I'll walk with you to the corner, if I may. I am thinking of buying a newspaper."

Jack gave him a curious glance and opened the door. "Why, I can bring you a newspaper this evening. I always pick one up to read at the Admiralty."

Stephen patted Jack's back. "Never trouble yourself, dear," he said, following Jack closely down the stairs. Outside, Stephen slowed his pace as they neared the corner. Jack cast him a puzzled look, Stephen smiled distractedly in response and came to a stop, and Jack walked on, clutching his plans.

The boy who had been following them walked past Stephen, unconcerned. Stephen reached out, grabbed his collar and yanked it. The boy yelped and twisted around. Stephen leaned close and said brusquely, "Now then, sir, what are you about?"

It was a short walk back to Stephen's lodgings, and though the boy writhed and strained to pull free from Stephen's grasp, he did not make a commotion after his first cries. Stephen urged him into the entryway and shut the door. The boy kicked at him -- a glancing blow to his shin -- and Stephen let go of his collar and pinched his ear.

"Ow!" the boy cried out.

Stephen's landlady ran out from the kitchen. "Oh!" the landlady cried, seeing the boy swatting at Stephen's arm. "You!" she said, marching forward, waving her finger. "Oh, Doctor, has he robbed you? I've seen him skulking about these past few days, and yesterday our Annie saw him steal a savoury pie she'd set in the window to cool."

Stephen tightened his grip on the boy's ear. "Is this true?"

"No! Ow! Yes! Yes, I stealed it. And it weren't very good, neither: gave me a belly ache." He stopped struggling and glowered at Stephen and the landlady. He was an ill-looking dirty little brute, perhaps nine or ten, very thin, barefoot.

The landlady rested her fists on her hips. "A liar as well as a thief! It was my best savoury pie. Oh, Doctor, what shall we do with him?"

"I'll take him upstairs. Perhaps you would be so kind as to make up more bacon and toast." The landlady stared at Stephen in disbelief. She folded her arms over her chest and opened her mouth to protest, and Stephen continued evenly, "And please send them up with Padeen." He let go of the boy's ear, gripped his collar, and led him upstairs.

Stephen released the boy once they were in Stephen's parlour. "Will you sit?" Stephen asked, offering a chair.

The boy gaped at him. "What are you going to do with me?" he asked, suspicious. "I heared you buy orphans and cut them up." The boy cast furtive looks round the room.

"Only dead orphans," replied Stephen truthfully. He pointed to the jar on his writing desk. "That is the leg of one. A deformed leg, as you can see."

The boy glanced at Stephen as if seeking permission, then slowly walked to the desk and stared into the jar. "Horrible," he said, fascinated.

"Have you a name?" asked Stephen, taking a seat. Padeen entered with the tray, cleared the table and set it down. Stephen stayed him from going with a quiet direction in Irish, and Padeen stood in front of the door.

"Name's Bill," said the boy, turning away from the infant leg. He startled when he saw Padeen and crept to the table and sat, staring. "Is that your giant?"

"Padeen is my servant," Stephen said, watching the boy. "He brought you this fine breakfast. Get some toast in you, now, and when you've had your fill, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me why you have been watching this house and why you have been following Captain Aubrey."

Bill looked warily from Padeen to Stephen: a complete picture of thorough guilt. Stephen sat back, and Bill, seeing that the offer of breakfast was genuine, grabbed toast and bacon and stuffed them into his mouth. "You'll do yourself an injury," Stephen remarked calmly, watching him eat. "A choking death a near certainty." Bill paid him little heed until the tray was empty and lines of grease streaked his filthy chin.

"I could eat more," said Bill hopefully, looking to Padeen when Stephen was unmoved. Defeated, he sat restlessly in the chair and picked at a hole in his breeches. "I get half a penny a day for watching, and a whole penny for following. I ain't supposed to tell."

"Who pays you for watching and following?" Stephen asked, observing the boy. He was frustrated that he had little experience in questioning children: were the signs of deception the same? Would his techniques be as reliable? _Jack might be more skilled at this_, he thought, recalling how easily Jack dealt with misbehaving midshipmen.

"Man my uncle knows," said Bill. "Mr Chamms."

Stephen was not surprised to have his suspicions confirmed. "Who is your uncle?" he asked.

Bill shook his head and refused to answer. Stephen paused, considering. "I don't need to know your uncle's name, but will you tell me this: is he a sailor?"

Bill pursed his lips, hesitated, finally nodded. "Can I have some more bacon now? Please," he added in an insincere afterthought.

"Perhaps," said Stephen, rising and going to the window. The street below was busy and he observed nothing unusual. "As I have interfered with your business today, I will pay you a penny and a half, and provide you with the information on Captain Aubrey's movements: he is gone to the Admiralty, and after his morning there, he will visit the architect Mr Miller before returning here."

"You're letting me go?" said Bill, wide-eyed in amazement.

"I am. I merely wished to know what your business was, and now I know all that you can tell me." Stephen fervently hoped this was true, and that he wasn't turning loose a foe more dangerous than he appeared. He looked closely at Bill, who had spotted the two-headed fetal lamb in its jar of spirits and was staring at it in awe. Stephen could see nothing beyond a small hungry filthy wretch: no connivance, no intent to harm.

"However," said Stephen, drawing some coins from his coat pocket, "I would ask of you a favour. I would greatly prefer it if you did not tell Mr Chamms of our meeting."

The coins had reclaimed Bill's attention. He watched Stephen's fingers shifting them on his palm. "Don't tell Chamms. Right."

"But you may tell your uncle, if you feel so compelled."

Bill lifted his gaze from the coins and frowned at Stephen. "What does 'compelled' mean?"

Stephen looked at him. "It means: if you find yourself unable or unwilling to keep the truth from him. If, say, your uncle doesn't entirely trust Mr Chamms, he may be interested to know that he may call on me here, and I would be glad to receive him. You may tell your uncle that, if you wish." Stephen eliminated the foreign coins and a button from his palm, and held up two pennies. "I have no half-pence, I fear," he said, placing them in Bill's hand. Bill clutched them and grinned wickedly at Stephen, whom he obviously thought was a bit of a flat, as Jack would say. Stephen nodded at Padeen, who stepped aside from the door. Stephen said, "You may go. Although if you steal another pie from downstairs I will not answer for my landlady."

Bill walked to the open door in an almost plausible show of restored dignity -- destroyed when he ran down the stairs and out into the street too swiftly to be caught again. Stephen watched him run until he was out of sight, and felt some satisfaction that the boy had not run in the direction of the Admiralty.

Some hours later, Stephen was deep in a refutation of Doctor Griffiths' treatise against swim-bathing -- Stephen had become a proponent of swimming, if not an entirely avid devotee of it, through Jack's insistence -- when his landlady announced that he had a visitor waiting downstairs. Her manner was cool -- she had not approved when he had let Bill escape -- and he could not determine from it much about his guest. Nevertheless, he put on his blue spectacles before going downstairs. A glance at the man standing in the snug told him this was Bill's uncle: the stooped shoulders, the rounded legs, the grey pigtail, the terrible scar which had obliterated one eye -- a sailor in all certainty. If Stephen had not been sure at first sight, the way the man brought his knuckle to his forehead in salute as he introduced himself -- "Walter Watkins, sir" -- would have convinced him.

"Good day to you, Mr Watkins," Stephen greeted, taking off his spectacles. "Pray be seated. Will you take some beer?"

Mr Watkins licked his lips and hesitatingly said, "Well, sir, if there's any going..."

Stephen rang for Annie, ordered two beers, and when they had been served watched Watkins drink half his glass in one gulp. "I believe I had the pleasure of meeting your nephew this morning," Stephen remarked.

Mr Watkins set down his glass and his one eye gleamed angrily. "Oh, sir! I didn't know what it were, sir: believe me. Mr Chamms said he wanted him for errands and the like. I didn't know Young Bill were watching houses and getting into trouble until today, when he told me. Then he said you said I could come call, and I came here directly. If he's been a-bothering you, and you want to swear out a warrant for him--"

"Bill and I came to a mutual agreement," Stephen interrupted. "There will be no need for a warrant." He took a modest sip of beer, waited for Mr Watkins to do the same, and when Watkins had calmed, Stephen said conversationally, "You served with Captain Greenway, I collect?"

"Sheet-anchor man on the _Archimede_," Watkins said with a hint of pride.

"That poor ship..." murmured Stephen.

Mr Watkins nodded and took another drink. "It were a horrible thing, sir. A living nightmare, if you take my meaning. If the skipper hadn't grabbed my arm like that, I would've drowned for certain. I were one of the last to reach the boat..." He grew quiet and stared into his beer.

"A noble deed," said Stephen. "And yet I am given to understand that after the tragic fate of the _Archimede_, Captain Greenway's career has been slow to recover."

Watkins' face hardened. He took a swig of beer and said, "They about broke him, I reckon."

"They?"

"Them admirals and such. I were a witness at the trial, and I seen him when he come out from the room. Shaking and moaning and pulling at his hair. Never seen a man like that in my life. I thought he were dismissed from service, he were in such a state. I were that surprised when I heard he were acquitted -- not that he shouldn't have been. He did all he could. She sunk so fast after she struck the rocks, you see, and there were a terrible gale."

Watkins paused and looked at Stephen expectantly, needing only the slightest encouragement to continue his detailed account of the wreck of the _Archimede_. Stephen sipped his beer and said, "Do you know Captain Aubrey?"

Surprised and possibly disappointed by the change of topic, Mr Watkins finished his beer in one swallow before answering with a smile, "There ain't many seamen who haven't heard of Lucky Jack Aubrey. But I ain't served with him, if that's what you're asking."

Stephen folded his hands over his waistcoat and Mr Watkins looked longingly at Stephen's barely touched beer. "May I offer you another, Mr Watkins?" he asked, and while they were waiting for Annie to bring it, he said, "Mr Chamms came to call on me some weeks ago. He did not seem like a naval man -- tell me, did he also serve on the _Archimede_ with Captain Greenway?"

Fresh beer delivered, Mr Watkins snorted, took a long drink and said, "Chamms on the old barky? Not bloody likely, begging your pardon, sir. But he were at sea once, in a way," Watkins said with a grim smile. "Worked some of the prison hulks down the Nore. Kind of clerk: wrote letters for the prisoners, did errands and such. For a fee, I wager, the poor wretches. The skipper met him when he got the _Arrow_, prison transport."

\-----

Jack left Mr Miller's office vaguely troubled. Mr Miller had easily agreed to all of Jack's changes, at first. The garden and vineyard remained unadorned, save for the fountain, which Mr Miller insisted would provide a pleasing aspect worthy of Mrs Aubrey's renowned beauty. He had further suggested that the nymph's face could be that of Mrs Aubrey -- what better compliment? And it was no trouble at all; Mr Miller's cousin was a sculptor, a member of the Royal Academy or nearly so, and charged very modest fees. Jack had been tempted -- had always thought Sophie lovelier than any of those simpering maids in pictures or marble busts -- but upon consideration decided against it. He was not at all certain that Sophie would appreciate becoming a naked nymph in her own fountain.

The cottage wing, however, was nearly unchanged. Only the scalloped lintels had been removed from the final plan, and that concession hard won. Jack had been obliged to raise his voice, something he hated to do when on land. But his harshly spoken "Mr Miller, I will not have the new wing to my cottage looking like some damned Greek oyster bed -- you will put in Christian windows or none at all" had carried the day. After this outburst, he had not found the right note to protest the cupola; and indeed, Mr Miller's arguments in its favour and his insistence that Captain Aubrey's naturalist friend would be wounded by its demise had so swayed Jack that he had temporarily forgotten that it had been Stephen himself who had raised objections to it. Jack remembered now, of course, and what Stephen would say... He did not choose to dwell upon what Stephen would say. Besides, he had other concerns: this mineralogico-scientific survey of the grounds which Mr Miller had suggested, for instance. Jack had to admit it made damned fine sense: survey the lands before starting on the gardens and the new wing -- better to discover any precious minerals in the land before work was begun than to have to halt everything and delay the building. But the survey's cost seemed a trifle high.

Jack walked toward his club as he pondered the plans for Ashgrove and calculated costs. He should like to ask the opinion of some of the married chaps there -- Colonel Ridgely had added a wing to Tavistock Manor, if he did not mistake. But in the entryway of the club Jack was halted by the sound of General Aubrey's voice: loud and abrasively jovial and coming toward him. Before Jack could duck into a side room, the general spotted him and called out in a double-reefed topsail gale roar, "Jack, my boy!"

Jack watched him approach in a swarm of laughing elderly gents with a certain detachment; General Aubrey never called Jack "my boy" unless he wanted something -- usually money, but sometimes to impress his coterie. This time it appeared to be the latter reason, for upon reaching Jack General Aubrey took his arm and cried, "Come with us, old fellow! Willy here is having a rout tonight." Jack recognised Admiral William Lewiston, a thick-headed short lecher whose last active command had been during the American War. "Willy was just telling me you captured a French seventy-four. That's the spirit. Fine stuff, no doubt."

The last thing in the world Jack wanted to do was to accompany his father to a rout -- nothing he would like better than to return to Stephen's lodgings and escape to Stephen's bed and into his arms -- but as he was casting about for a suitable reason to decline, Admiral Lewiston said, "You would do my wife and me an honour, Captain Aubrey. And I'd only be sweetening the punch if I mentioned that the First Lord will be there, and Gambier and Collingwood, and some of the officers in for Parliament."

Jack hesitated, but only for a moment. His visit to the Admiralty this morning had been just as unsuccessful as yesterday's, and it wasn't often that he was invited to routs where the First Lord was a guest. It was quite possible that Lord Keith would be there and he could see his old friend Queenie. Honour to Lady Keith practically dictated that he should go; professional ambition made it a certainty. He borrowed a pair of silk stockings from a club-mate, had his coat and scraper brushed until they shone, and feeling more presentable joined his father and Admiral Lewiston in their coach.

Mrs Lewiston -- the second Mrs Lewiston -- was a charming rosy-faced woman no older than Jack, somewhat plump but with a generous bosom she displayed with particular care. A well-schooled naval bride, she clutched Jack's arm and exclaimed, "The _Humanité_! I must hear every detail. We toasted you in bumpers, my dear Captain Aubrey. Do you know Sir Samuel Hood? Sir Samuel, may I present Captain Aubrey?"

And so shepherded by the delightful Mrs Lewiston for a polite interval, Jack was left in the midst of a happy, mixed crowd -- naval and army officers alike -- near the champagne table. After his second glass Jack recalled that he not had his dinner and sought out the trays of little pastries. This took him through most of the rooms, past the First Lord -- who was deep in conversation with several men but who gratifyingly nodded at Jack as he passed -- into a room where General Aubrey was loudly criticising the current government _and_ the opposition to a smirking audience, and back to the champagne table, where Sir Home Popham was making bitter remarks to a friend about his most recent court-martial. Jack rested here and watched for Lord and Lady Keith while he sipped champagne.

Another group of naval men surrounded the table, including some old shipmates, and Jack found himself recounting the capture of the _Acheron_ to an appreciative crowd. During a pause when Jack tried to recollect part of the poem Mr Mowett had composed about the _Acheron_, a tall amiable black-haired fellow who had been following the account with rapt attention said, "It chills the blood to think of Bonaparte in the Pacific. We are all indebted to you, sir." There were murmurs of assent.

"Why, it was no more than any other officer would do," said Jack modestly, though he could not stop smiling.

Some of the men moved away, but the amiable fellow stayed. He bowed and said, "My name's Beauman, and it is an honour to meet you, Captain Aubrey. And I am not overstating it when I say we are indebted to your bravery. You have saved the Company hundreds of thousands, I am certain of it. Will you have a drink with me, sir?"

At the sound of the man's name, Jack had startled a little and looked closely at him: but he saw only a pleasant young man. Perhaps this was not the same Beauman: it was difficult to imagine this friendly soul with someone like Mrs Keneally. "I would be delighted," Jack said, lifting his glass.

They talked some more about the _Acheron_, Linois and the dangers in the Indian Ocean. Beauman sighed and said, "There's the real glory: fighting on all quarters, close combat, all that smoke and noise."

"Have you ever been in battle, sir?" asked Jack, mildly curious.

Beauman chuckled. "Not I! No, but I collect paintings on the subject: naval battle scenes. And I admire the gallant men such as yourself who do the real fighting. Our trade would be absolutely dashed were it not for--"

He was cut off by a woman's voice saying, "Joseph? Do come, Joseph. I must introduce you to Lord Narborough." As Beauman made his apologies and reluctantly drew away, Jack glimpsed part of a blue skirt before they disappeared into the crowd. He rolled the stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger, staring after them. He knew that voice, even after all these years.

There were open doors nearby leading to a terrace. Jack went outside where it was quieter, breathed the crisp evening air over the scent of the hanging lanterns, and considered. For Mrs Keneally -- Mrs Beauman now -- to be here, she must be very bold, or the scandal surrounding Admiral Garrett's death must not have touched her to the extent that Stephen had wished. Or she was protected -- by someone very high up. Mrs Keneally was a traitor: her presence at such a party greatly disturbed Jack, but he was powerless to act. No proof, no facts -- only his own knowledge of her character and Stephen's knowledge of her ambitions. Jack resolved to go tell Stephen: at the very least, Stephen should know what grand company she was keeping.

"I knew it was you."

Her voice was ice in his blood. Jack turned and saw her step outside alone, still very beautiful but with a hardness about her which Jack had not recognised those many years ago when they had met. For a moment he had no idea what to say: she had threatened Stephen with blackmail, exposure, had set a trap for them broken only when Stephen had shot Admiral Garrett. Jack hated her.

Mrs Keneally stopped some yards away and laughed softly. "How terrible you look, Aubrey. Are you a man at last?" she murmured and slowly drew her fingers across her breast: pale beneath the lantern. "Or still the dull little boy willing to help a poor widow -- with his prick?"

Her vulgarity coolled his fury. Jack made a leg and said stiffly, "Mrs Beauman. Give you joy on your marriage."

Mrs Keneally laughed again. "Oh, dear. How disappointing you are. I hope Mrs Aubrey sees more of your manhood than I can." Jack glared at her at the mention of Sophie, but saw through her game: she was goading him -- she wanted his violence, as she had wanted it in the past. Jack gave a slight bow and strode to the open doors. As he passed, she said quietly, "But perhaps you save it for another -- that bastard Diana Villiers threw over, who thinks he's so clever. Is that why poor Mrs Aubrey is childless, hm?"

He could have struck her: he wanted to, badly. His desire to hurt her shook him to the core and stayed his hand: kept him walking until he was away from her and away from everyone and away from Admiral Lewiston's house and Mrs Lewiston's rout. He walked for an hour or more until the evening air coolled him and he wearily returned to Stephen's lodgings.

Stephen was in bed, reading. He glanced up as Jack came in, gave Jack a long look and said nothing. Jack sat heavily on the bed and took off his shoes and socks. Stephen set his book and spectacles aside and helped Jack out of his waistcoat. Stripped to his shirt Jack crawled into bed and curled against Stephen, who extinguished the light. "I saw her," Jack said at last. "Of all the ill-luck, I saw her."

\-----

Jack's sleep was restless, troubled; and when Stephen rose with the dawn he took pains not to disturb him, for Jack had finally quieted and fallen motionless. Despite Stephen's care -- he breakfasted alone and not even the scent of coffee had woken Jack -- when Stephen stepped into the bedroom for his coat, Jack suddenly sat up, wide awake, and said, "Lord, Stephen, I have had such a dream about Sophie." He ran a hand over his face. "It won't come now, but it was something frightful." He touched his eyes. "I believe I was crying."

Stephen sat beside him and rubbed his hand. "You should go to her, dear."

"You know I am not superstitious," Jack said quietly.

"It is not superstition to be missing your wife," said Stephen firmly. Stephen was concerned for Jack and thought it better if Jack left London immediately. Jack meeting Mrs Keneally last night was too neat a coincidence: she had become more reckless. Stephen wanted to sew up this little problem before it grew -- before it harmed Jack and before it swallowed them both -- and with Jack at Ashgrove Stephen could direct all of his concentration on it.

Jack squeezed Stephen's hand. "You'll come with me? Sophie longs to see you, you know."

"There are some things I must do here, but I will be down directly as soon as I may." At Jack's frown, Stephen raised his hand. "Never fear for me. Our enemy is not as clever as she believes."

"But, Stephen--" Stephen silenced him with a soft kiss, and Jack said, "I shall feel a scrub for leaving you like this."

Stephen touched Jack's cheek. "And yet sending you home is not without a certain risk -- Captain Greenway still resides in Horndean, I believe?"

"Yes," said Jack, frowning again and rubbing his forehead. "Though in truth I wonder at the risk. When we spoke... when everything was said, he seemed to shrink. Like the sheets in a dead calm: listless."

"Still, it would be best to be with Sophie, should anything happen," said Stephen thoughtfully. He regretted now the brevity of his meeting with Mr Chamms, for he had not learned enough from it about Greenway's true role or intention.

Jack rose and dressed, and was touchingly reluctant to leave. He lingered by the door and held Stephen's hands and said, "You will come soon? You don't need to send word: your room is always ready." Jack paused, looking steadily at Stephen, and Stephen feared Jack was on the verge of saying something dreadfully romantic in that woeful English manner.

Stephen assured him, "As soon as I can." He kissed Jack's cheek. "Now go to Sophie, and give her my love." From the window he watched Jack leave: for a very long time, until he was satisfied that Jack had not been followed.

It was over a week later that Stephen saw Mrs Keneally in the company of her new husband, about whom Stephen had learned little other than that Captain Beauman was a staid, well-respected officer of the East India Company. Did Beauman know of his wife's sexual appetites, Stephen idly wondered as he observed them from his seat in the coffee-house. The Beaumans were across the road in the park, and Captain Beauman had stopped to converse with an older gentleman. Mrs Beauman's impatience was ill-contained. Though she paid all polite respect to the gentleman, she glanced about while they were talking and fanned herself once in an abrupt manner.

"Well, well!" said Sir Joseph Blaine (for the older gentleman was he) when he came into the coffee-house and joined Stephen at his table. "So that is the much talked about Mrs Beauman. A great beauty, you must admit."

"I will not," said Stephen, draining his coffee. "Her finer features are wasted on someone of her disposition. But tell me about her husband."

"Perhaps we will take a walk?" said Sir Joseph, rising, and when they were on their way to Sir Joseph's rooms, Stephen said, "She was not impressed with you, I'm afraid."

"No," said Sir Joseph with a chuckle. "However clever she may believe herself to be, she has no notion of my position. Found me of no interest -- how gratifying." He chuckled again. "I told Beauman I'd heard fine things about him from the London merchants and wished to shake his hand -- that the solid cooperation of the Company was gratifying to the Service." Stephen said nothing, well aware of the prevailing naval opinion on Company men, though he had met several fine merchant officers. "It's partly true," Blaine continued. "Beauman is well thought of by the Company and their London men. But as a naval officer, my opinion is that he's best where he is. Lacks the fire of a man-of-war officer: not one of your Hardinges or Aubreys."

Which increased the mystery of his marriage, Stephen thought, although it was possible that beneath Beauman's dull and respectable appearance lurked a rake with unnatural appetites. It was not uncommon.

"So she married respectability," Stephen observed.

They had reached Sir Joseph's door, and proceeded inside to the study where Sir Joseph was eager to show Stephen his newest insect acquisitions. After this pause for inspection, wine, and scientific discussion, Sir Joseph resumed their conversation: "She could not have married better if her goal was to return to England. Beauman lacks spirit, but he is well-connected in the Company and already has a small fortune. And unfortunately, the rumours about Admiral Garrett's death last year were too doubtful to stay focused on her." Sir Joseph politely said no more. He sipped his wine and after a while said, "If Beauman has heard any of the scandals connected to her, he's too smitten to care."

"Men in love are often foolish," Stephen said primly.

Sir Joseph smiled. "Only you and I can say so, in our bachelor state. But tell me, how is Captain Aubrey? Mrs Beauman didn't incite him to any rash act, did she?"

This shift in subject so soon after speaking of _men in love_ caused Stephen to look closely at Sir Joseph, but Blaine's manner had not changed at all. He and Stephen knew each other quite well, and Stephen was certain that if Blaine guessed about his relationship with Jack, he wouldn't coyly obscure the topic: he would be direct. The risk, the compromise to Stephen's position, would require it. Stephen could not lie to Sir Joseph; but it concerned him how easily he hid the truth from him.

"Captain Aubrey is home with his wife," said Stephen, "and though Mrs Beauman spoke to him at the Lewistons' party, his behaviour to her was civil."

"Maturin," said Sir Joseph, looking keenly at Stephen, "what is your opinion of Mrs Beauman's intentions? Has she returned in service to her former friends, or has her ambition diminished?"

"I would not underestimate her ambition," Stephen said. "On Beauman's arm she gains access to some very illustrious names. But her weaknesses are her recklessness and her desire to destroy others, which do not endear her to her friends on the Continent. She may undo herself."

It occurred to him that there were ways to assist her undoing, but Stephen kept this thought to himself. And when he returned home that evening to his rooms empty of Jack's presence, cold in the absence of Jack's warmth and quiet in the absence of Jack's laughter, he sat at his escritoire and composed the note which would be the seed of her repudiation, he hoped. It was very like poisoning the well of intelligence, Stephen reflected: except that this time, the facts in the note were true.

\-----

Jack departed London with no intention of seeing Captain Greenway again. For his part, all that reasonably could be said had been said; and he could not credit Greenway with anything so vile as blackmail. Though indeed he hardly knew the man now: Greenway was no longer the jolly midshipman of his youth. Jack's return to Ashgrove, therefore, was without excitement. Sophie was pleased to see him, Mrs Williams less pleased but relatively mild-tempered, and the gardener from Portsmouth had called in Jack's absence to survey the future vineyard. For several weeks Jack's life was uneventful and domestic, and Stephen's occasional notes contained no hints of disaster or ruin among the terse commentaries on naturalist colleagues and sketchy observations of curious new specimens.

It was the day of Admiral Needham's party that Jack saw Greenway. Old Captain Needham had finally hoisted his flag and in the generosity of his joy he hosted a grand affair in the best rooms in Portsmouth. Jack hired a gig, Sophie wore the dress she'd made from the silk Jack had brought her from India, and even Mrs Williams was swept into the celebratory spirit of the day and had her wig newly curled and dyed. The cheerful mood lasted for the ride and most of evening, until Sophie took Jack's arm and pressed close, saying, "There is that poor Captain Greenway. We must find Mama before he sees her -- he was so persuasive about markets and speculations that she nearly committed her savings."

Jack wondered that Greenway should be a guest until he recalled that Greenway had been Captain Needham's premier on the _Philomena_. While Sophie hurried off to find her mother, Jack found a spot to stand where he could observe Greenway and Greenway could approach if he chose to do so -- but Jack did not think he would. Greenway saw him, but without noticable interest; his gaze passed over Jack after the briefest of pauses. He looked morose and strange and detached from the gaiety surrounding him. Sophie returned with the relieving news that Mrs Williams was resting with some other ladies and discussing the inadequacies of servants these days -- a topic Jack knew her to hold for hours. He danced with Sophie, had a pleasant conversation with Admiral Needham, met many old shipmates and their wives, and nearly forgot about Greenway.

They left very late, in high spirits despite their weariness. Admiral Needham had not spared the champagne, the music had been lively, and the company had been jolly and comfortably naval. Jack had not seen Greenway for an hour or more and had him out of mind when the gig arrived. But as Jack handed Mrs Williams inside, he noticed a dark figure standing a few feet away. His first thought was a footpad, but even as he urged Sophie into the gig instinct told him it was Greenway.

"Captain Aubrey," Greenway said.

Sophie squeezed Jack's hand. "Oh, Jack: what can he want?"

Jack patted her hand and said, "It will be all right," and went to meet him. A faint anticipation of excitement -- Jack's natural response to the expectation of violence -- briefly stirred him but it was immediately apparent that Greenway did not intend to fight. He made no move or gesture and said nothing until Jack was close.

"It was only for some money," Greenway said in a distracted way, half talking to himself. He paused and said more clearly, "There were so many other miseries, but money was the easiest, and I listened to that Chamms..." His voice drifted off, and a long silence followed, Jack wondering if he would speak again and not certain what to say himself. Then in a firm, steady voice Greenway said, "Listen, Aubrey: Needham has promised to do what he can for me. He never forgets a shipmate, and he supported me throughout the mess about the _Archimede_. I just wanted to tell you that, and to let you know that if Chamms has anything planned, I'm not a party to it. He took his direction from another, without my knowledge. I give you my word." After a hesitation he added softly, "I hope my word will do."

Jack gently clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course, of course. Let us forget the whole thing. I am sure Needham will do his best... an excellent officer and fine seaman... I wish you joy." They shook hands, and Jack was grateful for the darkness: light would have shown his concern. Although Needham was an admiral at last, he lacked influence and it was well known he would be content without an active command. What he could do for Greenway Jack could not imagine, but he was genuinely glad for Greenway and hoped this signalled the turning of the tide.

He felt more optimistic by the time he reached the gig -- Greenway was a reliable officer and skilled sailor, and the Navy needed more of those, heaven knew -- and began to tell Sophie the good news when she put a finger to her lips. Mrs Williams was fast asleep in the opposite seat, and as the gig carried them back to Ashgrove, Sophie fell asleep with her cheek resting against Jack's shoulder.

Three days after Admiral Needham's party Mr Miller arrived from London to walk over the grounds with Jack and the gardener and view the site of the new wing. As they traced the curve of the future fountain with their footsteps and Mr Miller remarked upon Ashgrove's "pleasing rustic vista" Jack watched a messenger cross over from the path leading to the road and go up to the house. His first thought was of a new command, and in his impatience to finish the survey Jack found himself agreeing to the mineralogical investigation and to a new proposal for a hedge-maze at the bottom of the garden. When at last the tour of the grounds was over Jack hurried to the house and seized the waiting letter. Sophie and Mrs Williams sat quietly and waited for the news. Jack mastered his initial disappointment -- he was not ordered to a new ship -- smiled at Sophie and said, "It is from Stephen, dearest. He will be here in two days."

"Two days!" cried Sophie. "But there is so much to do. We must air out his room... the sweeping... and of course I must make a pie, but what kind? Two days," she murmured, shaking her head.

Mrs Williams nodded and said approvingly, "Doctor Maturin." And in a tone of accusation added, "He was always welcome at Mapes Court, I believe," and gave Jack a hard, searching look, as if Jack had forbidden Stephen from visiting.

"Mama, he is always welcome here," Sophie said in a firm tone which discouraged any contradiction. Mrs Williams sniffed, lifted her chin and turned to stare out of the parlour window. Jack sat down with Stephen's letter, rereading it for a clue to Stephen's mood: the brevity of the note made it impersonal.

"Well," Mrs Williams said stiffly after a while, "here is another messenger now. Doctor Maturin has probably changed his mind and has written to say so."

Jack regarded the back of her head, thinking how remarkably disagreeable she was being. He corrected himself: her natural state was to be disagreeable, and her mood would only be remarkable if she were being agreeable.

The messenger was not from Stephen, but from the Admiralty, carrying Jack's orders requiring and directing him to proceed to the quarterdeck of the _Palinurus_, a young thirty-eight currently refitting at Plymouth. A post-scriptum in the First Lord's hand at the bottom of the page added that Jack was to take Doctor Maturin with him as a guest, and that he was to rendezvous with Captain Rowland off the Azores on one of the specified dates. There was no command to hurry but already Jack felt the insistence of the tide, and his mind filled with a thousand details: her spars, hawsers, stays, shrouds, courses, knees, and above all her guns. Her stores, her men, her bowline. Was she a swift sailor? Was she dry? Responsive? Could he love her as he did the dear old _Surprise_? And his orders: unspecific, but the inclusion of Stephen in them suggested intelligence work. His happiness was tempered by a pang of concern: Stephen's activities ashore were as dangerous, if not more so, than sea engagements. Their destination after the Azores could be anywhere. However, there was no purpose in musing on the unknowns.

"A thirty-eight," said Sophie, pleased, when he had told her the news. "I am sure she must be very fine and impressive."

Jack had never seen the _Palinurus_ and could not say. "But I will take a thirty-eight over one of the new fifty gun frigates: they are far too heavy for close manoeuvres."

Mrs Williams, who had listened to Jack's news with neither obvious approval nor disapproval, asked, "How many guns had the _Acheron_, Captain Aubrey?"

"Forty-four, ma'am."

"Forty-four is more than thirty-eight," Mrs Williams observed. She narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, ma'am," agreed Jack, for it was no more than the truth.

"But Mama," said Sophie, "thirty-eight is more than twenty-four, which is the number of guns the _Surprise_ had." She smiled gently at Jack, and Jack looked upon her with great affection and admiration.

Mrs Williams sniffed. "Is this new ship a ship-of-the-line?"

Jack smiled, amused by the thought. "Why, no, ma'am."

"Ah, I see," she said dismissively. Jack had once explained to her the hierarchy of ships' ratings, and ever since it seemed that the only ship worthy of her attention was a ship-of-the-line.

But Jack's good humour could not be wrecked, and Sophie shared in his happiness, listening attentively as he considered the advantages and disadvantages of a heavier frigate than the _Surprise_, impartially reviewed the strengths and weaknesses of English-built ships, and planned a route to the Azores which would give him ample opportunity for gunnery practise. He spent the next two days preparing his sea-chest, sent word for any old Surprises who had managed to avoid the press-gangs, and wrote to Mr Miller instructing him to eliminate the fountain and Stephen's cupola from the plans for the new wing; Jack would need a great deal of money for his private stock of gunpowder. Bonden and Killick arrived within hours of the news reaching town, and helped Sophie with sweeping and tidying Stephen's room, and soon all the brass, copper and silver surfaces in Ashgrove Cottage had been polished to an aggressive shine.

So focused was he upon the _Palinurus_ that when Stephen arrived on the appointed day, Jack's thoughts were very far away from scandals and old enemies. Killick and Bonden had been joined by several old Surprises and Sophies, and Jack sent a pair of seamen to bring Stephen's chests. The cottage was in a frenzy of activity -- the parlour floor had been swabbed and was being flogged dry, and in the kitchen Sophie was preparing a grand sea-pie in honour of Stephen's visit -- when Stephen stepped inside, looking weary and disagreeable. Jack very nearly took him in his arms; was on the verge of doing so but collected himself and patted Stephen's back instead and said, "So you are here at last. Sophie is so pleased. You've heard about the _Palinurus_? We have a day or two before we have to leave, but I mean to get to Plymouth as soon as ever I can. Lord knows how long it will take to find enough men to sail her."

"Jack..." Stephen began, but was cut off by Sophie hurrying from the kitchen to greet him and squeeze his hands. Stephen kissed her cheeks and brushed flour from her hair. Stephen said little until after they had had their great dinner, the seamen had departed for Plymouth on a cart with Bonden and Killick in charge of them, and the cottage was quiet again. Sophie took up her knitting and sat by the fire where Mrs Williams had fallen asleep on the settee. Jack settled into his chair with the newest number of the _Naval Chronicle_ but before he had turned two pages, Stephen said, "Would you mind it awfully if we had a walk round to my honey buzzards? I am with child to see them again."

Outside they strolled alone across the future gardens, now plain with overgrown grass and weeds in long late afternoon shadows. Stephen lit a cheroot, but he was restless, distracted, and Jack felt a sense of foreboding. They reached the little stand of trees where Stephen had often watched the honey buzzards. None to be seen today: Stephen sighed, puffed on his cigar, and leaned against a tree deep in shade. "Mrs Beauman is dead," he said at last in a flat controlled voice.

Jack stared at him, stunned; and mortified that his immediate reaction was one of relief. Before he could check himself he asked, "How?" and wished the question back as soon as he saw Stephen's sharp look.

Stephen stubbed the end of his cheroot against the tree and tossed it into the grass. "Mr Beauman strangled her and has run off, escaped. Possibly to the East Indies. He has friends there who may harbour him."

"Beauman?" cried Jack. The image of that fine young man and his amiable smile came to mind. Jack could not credit it. "But why? I thought he was devoted to her."

Stephen didn't immediately answer, and in the silence Jack tried to bring these words into conclusive, knowable facts: _Mrs Beauman is dead. Her husband killed her._

Stephen said, "Mr Beauman learned of her past: her former occupation, her liaisons with certain other men, her friendships with Frenchmen of ill reputation. The man she sent to blackmail us decided that her husband was a richer prospect after he discovered some of Mrs Beauman's secrets. Mr Beauman's temper and capacity for violence had been grossly underestimated, I'm afraid."

There was pain in his voice: a deep sorrow. Jack wondered at it until he perceived that it was for Mr Beauman, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that there was more Stephen had not said. Jack moved closer and squeezed Stephen's shoulder gently.

"Stephen," he said. "Could it not have been an accident? Her tastes were quite strange, and perhaps while her husband was accomodating them there could have been an unintentional outcome. It is possible, is it not?"

Stephen looked at him, silent, wary. Jack repeated, "Is it possible?" and Stephen squeezed Jack's hand.

"It is possible," Stephen said at last.

As they walked back to the cottage, Jack was reluctant to break the silence as Stephen seemed slightly more at ease, but this was too important to neglect. "What became of the blackguard who approached Mr Beauman?" he asked.

"He has disappeared entirely." Stephen paused, stopping a few hundred feet from the cottage. He shaded his eyes and watched the soaring flight of a bird. "Faith, there is one survivor at least. My honey buzzards have not deserted Ashgrove, the joy of it." He smiled briefly; the smile faded as he passed Jack and said in a low tone, "I do not believe he will trouble us: I do not believe he is alive. The last person with whom he was seen was Mr Beauman."

"Good lord," Jack cried, disturbed by the thought of plain, base murder. That pleasant young fellow who collected paintings of battle scenes -- capable of such cold-blooded violence? It occurred to him that Beauman must have had a volatile and passionate temper -- likely this volatility had attracted Mrs Beauman more than Beauman's wealth.

Jack was about to comment on this to Stephen but thought better of it; Stephen entered the cottage and smiled at Sophie and endeavoured to mask his sadness and weariness by praising her knitting. Jack watched them together with strong affection. He was very, very lucky. _Perhaps_, he thought, _it is when others try us so that we see how fortunate we are_.

\-----

At the best of times during a refitting Jack was not a particularly easy man: he was enthusiastic, brisk, focussed and practical, but his every thought was for his ship. The refitting of the _Palinurus_ was not the best of times -- some complication with stowing her hold and a desperate search for seamen to man her -- and Stephen in his distracted solemn mood found Jack's monomaniacal focus wearisome. He left Plymouth and journeyed to London but found it grave and unhappy; after arranging for his belongings to be sent to the ship he returned to Ashgrove and spent a few quiet pleasant days with Sophie and Mrs Williams and the honey buzzards until Bonden appeared one morning with orders to bring Doctor Maturin to Plymouth using any necessary means: the _Palinurus_ was ready to set sail.

It was dark and strangely quiet when Bonden rowed out to the ship and handed Stephen up the side. Upon reaching the quarterdeck a cheerful sight lifted Stephen's spirits: Lord Blakeney -- now surprisingly tall, a child no more -- smiled at him and wished him good evening. Stephen was not too startled to notice the piping on Blakeney's coat and said, "Are we shipmates again, joy?"

Blakeney bowed his head slightly. "Captain Aubrey has made me his second lieutenant, Doctor. And Mr Mowett is here as his premier." And with a boyish breathless happiness he added, "I hear we are to stop at the Azores where there are some prodigious wonderful beasts."

"Are we now?" said Stephen, recalling that the last sketch he had seen in Lord Blakeney's notebook had been of a charming young woman. "Tell me, is the captain aboard? Such an insistence on haste, and I find the ship almost deserted."

"The captain intends to sail tomorrow. He's in the great cabin, and Mr Evelyn -- that's our carpenter -- has put up the coach for you as our guest," said Blakeney, showing him to the companionway.

Stephen descended into the dark gun deck and was greeted by the Marine sentry, whom Stephen recognised as a precocious subaltern he had once treated for a venereal complaint. The great cabin was bright and warm, and Jack sat at his writing desk in his shirt, breeches, and stockings, looking through papers, an untouched dish of toasted cheese sitting by his elbow.

"Ah, there you are, Stephen," Jack cried, and Stephen noticed with concern the dark hollows under his eyes and his liverish complexion. "I have just been searching for that Locatelli piece. I hope your journey down was amiable. We sail tomorrow, you know."

"So I have been told," said Stephen, standing beside the chair and studying a sheet of music over Jack's shoulder. "By Lord Blakeney himself -- how delightful to see him again, and Mowett, too, I collect. But tell me, dear, where are all the men? Have the press gangs failed you?"

"What a fellow you are," said Jack. "They are ashore, of course. Their last night of liberty for many months. I don't like to grant them leave the night before we sail, but half the crew were just paid off from the old _Sprightly_ after a frightful cruise in the Baltic. There are enough reliable old hands aboard to see that we don't miss stays tomorrow. Will you take some toasted cheese? It is a trifle cold, I fear."

Stephen watched him closely for a moment and rested his hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack patted his hand and exclaimed, "Why, damn my eyes, here it is," and held up the Locatelli. He stood up, picked up his violin from the stern locker and sat on the bench. Stephen took off his coat and sat down with the Locatelli while Jack tuned. Jack plucked and bowed for a great while without reaching a true note: then silence. Stephen glanced up from the paper and Jack was staring out the stern windows.

"My dear," said Stephen softly, putting the Locatelli aside.

"The damnedest thing," said Jack with a brief sad smile. He rose and brought a slim journal to Stephen, folding it open to one page. Stephen took it from him: the _Naval Chronicle_ for the previous month. He scanned the page headed _Deaths_ and read: _The 6th instant, in Portsmouth, Captain Edmund Greenway, by his own hand. His last command was the prison transport Arrow and he leaves many debts unpaid._

 

Stephen took Jack's hand. They sat on the bench together and watched the night, the lights in town, the water. When at last Jack relaxed, Stephen held him and caressed his hair and wished he had some joyful news, some diversion to share. But there was no joy in his own affairs, and the news from Ashgrove -- particularly from Sophie -- was not what Jack longed to hear. After a while Jack said, "Do you know, I am always sad to leave home, but in truth I have not been more eager to put to sea. There is something very reassuring about being at sea."

Stephen stroked a lock of hair from Jack's neck with his forefinger. "There is, too." He paused and was aware of his own very great eagerness to be away, as if the leagues of salt water would wash away his memories: the distasteful note to Mr Chamms, his foolish and grave misjudgment of Mr Beauman, the trunk of animal skins Diana and her lover had sent to him. "Are you very sad, then?" he asked quietly.

Jack looked up at him with a soft smile. "No, not now," he said and pulled Stephen into a tender kiss.

That night they lay in Stephen's cot, simply holding each other. In Jack's arms, with the swaying of the ship and the creaking of her timbers, with Jack's breath upon his skin, the familar sound of the bells and the water lapping against the hull, Stephen felt peace and contentment again: the expectation of the future and the silence of the past.

(the end)


End file.
